CHAPTER III
Walter Lowell tore the wrapper of his copy of the "White Lodge WeeklyStar" when the agency mail was put on his desk a few days after themurder on the Dollar Sign road.
"I'm betting Editor Jay Travers cuts into the vitriol supply for ourbenefit in this issue of his household journal," remarked the agent tohis chief clerk.
"He won't overlook the chance," replied Rogers. "Here's where he earns alittle of the money the stockmen have been putting into his newspaperduring the last few years."
"Yes, here it is: 'Crime Points to Indians. Automobile Tourist KilledNear Reservation. Staked Down, Probably by Redskins. Wave of HorrorSweeping the County--Dancing should be Stopped--Policy of CoddlingIndians--White Settlers not Safe.' Oh, take it and read it in detail!"And Lowell tossed the paper to Rogers.
"And right here, where you'd look for it first thing--right at the topof the editorial column--is a regular old-fashioned English leader,calling on the Government to throw open the reservation to grazing,"said Rogers.
"The London 'Times' could thunder no more strongly in proportion. Thegrateful cowmen should throw at least another five thousand into yeeditor's coffers. But, after all, what does it matter? A dozennewspapers couldn't make the case look any blacker for the Indians. Ifsome hot-headed white man doesn't read this and take a shot at the firstIndian he meets, no great harm will be done."
The inquest over the slain man had been duly held at White Lodge. Thecoroner's jury found that the murder had been done "by a person orpersons unknown." The telegrams which Lowell had sent had brought backthe information that Edward B. Sargent was a retired inventor of miningmachinery--that he was prosperous, and lived alone. His servants said hehad departed in an automobile five days before. He had left no word asto his destination, but had drawn some money from the bank--sufficientto cover expenses on an extended trip. His servants said he was in thehabit of taking such trips alone. Generally he went to the RockyMountains in his automobile every summer. He was accustomed to life inthe open and generally carried a camping outfit. His description talliedwith that which had been sent. He had left definite instructions with atrust company about the disposal of his fortune, and about his burial,in case of his death. Would the county authorities at White Lodge pleaseforward remains without delay?
While the inquiry was in progress, Walter Lowell spent much of his timeat White Lodge, and caught the brunt of the bitter feeling against theIndians. It seemed as if at least three out of four residents of thecounty had mentally tried and convicted Fire Bear and his companions.
"And if there is one out of the four that hasn't told me his opinion,"said Lowell to the sheriff, "it's because he hasn't been able to get totown."
Sheriff Tom Redmond, though evidently firm in his opinion that Indianswere responsible for the crime, was not as outspoken in his remarks ashe had been at the scene of the murder. The county attorney, CharleyDryenforth, a young lawyer who had been much interested in the progressof the Indians, had counseled less assumption on the sheriff's part.
"Whoever did this," said the young attorney, "is going to be found,either here in this county or on the Indian reservation. It wasn't anychance job--the work of a fly-by-night tramp or yeggman. The Dollar Signis too far off the main road to admit of that theory. It's a home job,and the truth will come out sooner or later, just as Lowell says, andthe only sensible thing is to work with the agent and not againsthim--at least until he gives some just cause for complaint."
Like the Indian agent, the attorney had a complete understanding of theprejudices in the case. There is always pressure about any Indianreservation. White men look across the line at unfenced acres, andcomplain bitterly against a policy that gives so much land to so fewindividuals. There are constant appeals to Congressmen. New treaties,which disregard old covenants as scraps of paper, are constantly beingintroduced. Leasing laws are being made and remade and fought over. TheIndian agent is the local buffer between contending forces. But, used ashe was to unfounded complaint and criticism, Walter Lowell was hardlyprepared for the bitterness that descended upon him at White Lodge afterthe crime on the Dollar Sign. Men with whom he had hunted and fished,cattlemen whom he had helped on the round-up, and storekeepers whosetrade he had swelled to considerable degree, attempted to engage inargument tinged with acrimony. Lowell attempted to answer a few of themat first, but saw how futile it all was, and took refuge in silence. Hewaited until there was nothing more for him to do at White Lodge, andthen he went back to the agency to complete the job of forgetting anincredible number of small personal injuries.... There was the girl atWillis Morgan's ranch. Surely she would be outside of all thesewave-like circles of distrust and rancor. He intended to have gone tosee her within a day or two after he had taken her over to Morgan's, butsomething insistent had come up at the agency, and then had come themurder. Well, he would go over right away. He took his hat and glovesand started for the automobile, when the telephone rang.
"It's Sheriff Tom Redmond," said Rogers. "He's coming over to see youabout going out after Fire Bear. An indictment's been found, and he'sbringing a warrant charging Fire Bear with murder."
* * * * *
Bill Talpers sat behind the letter cage that marked off Uncle Sam'scorner of his store, and paid no attention to the waiting Indian outsidewho wanted a high-crowned hat, but who knew better than to ask for it.
Being postmaster had brought no end of problems to Bill. This time itwas a problem that was not displeasing, though Mr. Talpers was not quitesure as yet how it should be followed out. The problem was contained ina letter which Postmaster Bill held in his hand. The letter was open,though it was not addressed to the man who had read it a dozen times andwho was still considering its import.
Lovingly, Bill once more looked at the address on the envelope. It wasin a feminine hand and read:
MR. EDWARD B. SARGENT.
The town that figured on the envelope was Quaking-Asp Grove, which wasbeyond White Lodge, on the main transcontinental highway. Slowly Billtook from the envelope a note which read:
_Dear Uncle and Benefactor_:
I have learned all. Do not come to the ranch for me, as you have planned. Evil impends. In fact I feel that he means to do you harm. I plead with you, do not come. It is the only way you can avert certain tragedy. I am sending this by Wong, as I am watched closely, though he pretends to be looking out only for my welfare. I can escape in some way. I am not afraid--only for you. Again I plead with you not to come. You will be going into a deathtrap.
HELEN
Wong, the factotum from the Greek Letter Ranch, had brought the letterand had duly stamped it and dropped it in the box for outgoing mail,three days before the murder on the Dollar Sign road. Wong had all theappearance of a man frightened and in a hurry. Talpers sought to detainhim, but the Chinese hurried back to his old white horse and climbedclumsily into the saddle.
"It's a long time sence I've seen that old white hoss with the bigpitchfork brand on his shoulder," said Talpers. "You ain't ridin' uphere for supplies as often as you used to, Wong. Must be gettin' allyour stuff by mail-order route. Well, I ain't sore about it, so waitawhile and have a little smoke and talk."
But Wong had shaken his head and departed as rapidly in the direction ofthe ranch as his limited riding ability would permit.
The letter that Wong had mailed had not gone to its addresseddestination. Talpers had opened it and read it, out of idle curiosity,intending to seal the flap again and remail it if it proved to benothing out of the ordinary. But there were hints of interesting thingsin the letter, and Bill kept it a day or so for re-reading. Then he keptit for another day because he had stuck it in his pocket and all butforgotten about it. Afterward came the murder, with the name of Sargentfiguring, and Bill kept the letter for various reasons, one of which wasthat he did not know what else to do with it.
"It's too late for that feller to git it now, any ways," was Bill'scomfort
able philosophy. "And if I'd go and mail it now, some foolinspector might make it cost me my job as postmaster. Besides, it maycome useful in my business--who knows?"
The usefulness of the letter, from Bill's standpoint, began to beapparent the day after the murder, when Helen Ervin rode up to the storeon the white horse which Wong had graced. The girl rode well. She washatless and dressed in a neat riding-suit--the conventional attire ofher classmates who had gone in for riding-lessons. Her riding-clotheswere the first thing she had packed, on leaving San Francisco, as thevery word "ranch" had suggested delightful excursions in the saddle.
Two or three Indians sat stolidly on the porch as Helen rode up. She hadlearned that the old horse was not given to running away. He might roll,to rid himself of the flies, but he was not even likely to do that withthe saddle on, so Helen did not trouble to tie him to the rack. She letthe reins drop to the ground and walked past the Indians into the store,where Bill Talpers was watching her greedily from behind hispostmaster's desk.
"You are postmaster here, Mr. Talpers, aren't you?" asked Helen, with aslight acknowledgment of the trader's greeting.
Bill admitted that Uncle Sam had so honored him.
"I'm looking for a letter that was mailed here by Wong, and should beback from Quaking-Asp Grove by this time. It had a return address on it,and I understand the person to whom it was sent did not receive it."
Talpers leaned forward mysteriously and fixed his animal-like gaze onHelen.
"I know why he didn't git it," said Bill. "He didn't git it because hewas murdered."
Helen turned white, and her riding-whip ceased its tattoo on her boot.She grasped at the edge of the counter for support, and Bill smiledtriumphantly. He had played a big card and won, and now he was going tolet this girl know who was master.
"There ain't no use of your feelin' cut up," he went on. "If you and mejest understand each other right, there ain't no reason why any one elseshould know about that letter."
"You held it up and it never reached Quaking-Asp Grove!" exclaimedHelen. "You're the real murderer. I can have you put in prison fortampering with the mails."
The last shot did not make Bill blink. He had been looking for it.
"Ye-es, you might have me put in prison. I admit that," he said,stroking his sparse black beard, "but you ain't goin' to, because I'dfeel in duty bound to say that I jest held up the letter in theinterests of justice, and turn the hull thing over to the authorities.Old Fussbudget Tom Redmond is jest achin' to make an arrest in thiscase. He wants to throw the hull Injun reservation in jail, but he'djest as soon switch to a white person, if confronted with the properevidence. Now this here letter"--and here Bill took the missive from hispocket--"looks to me like air-tight, iron-bound, copper-riveted sort oftestimony that says its own say. Tom couldn't help but act on it, andact quick."
Helen looked about despairingly. The Indians sat like statues on theporch. They had not even turned their heads to observe what was going oninside the store. The old white horse was switching and stamping andshuddering in his constant and futile battle against flies. Beyond theroad was silence and prairie.
Turning toward the trader, Helen thought to start in on a plea formercy, but one look into Talpers's face made her change her mind. Angerset her heart beating tumultuously. She snatched at the letter in thetrader's hand, but Bill merely caught her wrist in his big fingers.Swinging the riding-whip with all her strength, she struck Talpersacross the face again and again, but he only laughed, and finallywrenched the whip away from her and threw it out in the middle of thefloor. Then he released her wrist.
"You've got lots o' spunk," said Bill, coming out from behind thecounter, "but that ain't goin' to git you anywheres in pertic'ler in acase like this. You'd better set down on that stool and think thingsover and act more human."
Helen realized the truth of Talpers's words. Anger was not going to gether anywhere. The black events of recent hours had brought outresourcefulness which she never suspected herself of having. FortunatelyMiss Scovill had been the sort to teach her something of the realitiesof life. The Scovill School for Girls might have had a largerfashionable patronage if it had turned out more graduates of theclinging-vine type of femininity instead of putting independence ofthought and action as among the first requisites.
"That letter doesn't amount to so much as you think," said Helen; "and,anyway, suppose I swear on the stand that I never wrote it?"
"You ain't the kind to swear to a lie," replied Bill, and Helen flushed."Besides, it's in your writin', and your name's there, and your Chinamanbrought it here. You can't git around them things."
"Suppose I tell my stepfather and he comes here and takes the letteraway from you?"
Talpers sneered.
"He couldn't git that letter away from me, onless we put it up as aprize in a Greek-slingin' contest. Besides, he's too ornery to help outeven his own kin. Why, I ain't one tenth as bad as that stepfather ofyourn. He just talked poison into the ears of that Injun wife of hisuntil she died. I guess mebbe by your looks you didn't know he had anInjun wife, but he did. Since she died--killed by inches--he's had thatChinaman doin' the work around the ranch-house. I guess he can't make adent on the Chinese disposition, or he'd have had Wong dead before this.If you stay there any time at all, he'll have you in an insane asylum orthe grave. That's jest the nature of the beast."
Talpers was waxing eloquent, because it had come to him that his onegreat mission in life was to protect this fine-looking girl from thecruelty of her stepfather. An inexplicable feeling crept into hisheart--the first kindly feeling he had ever known.
"It's a dum shame you didn't have any real friends like me to warn youoff before you hit that ranch," went on Bill. "That young agent whodrove you over ought to have told you, but all he can think of isprotectin' Injuns. Now with me it's different. I like Injuns all right,but white folks comes first--especially folks that I'm interested in.Now you and me--"
Helen picked up her riding-whip.
"I can't hear any more to-day," she said.
Talpers followed her through the door and out on the porch.
"All right," he remarked propitiatingly. "This letter'll keep, but mebbenot very long."
In spite of her protests, he turned the horse around for her, and heldher stirrup while she mounted. His solicitousness alarmed her more thanpositive enmity on his part.
"By gosh! you're some fine-lookin' girl," he said admiringly, his gazesweeping over her neatly clad figure. "There ain't ever been aridin'-rig like that in these parts. I sure get sick of seein' thesesquaws bobbin' along on their ponies. There's lots of women around herethat can ride, but I never knowed before that the clothes counted somuch. Now you and me--"
Helen struck the white horse with her whip. As if by accident, the lashwhistled close to Bill Talpers's face, making him give back a step insurprise. As the girl rode away, Talpers looked after her, grinning.
"Some spirited girl," he remarked. "And I sure like spirit. But mebbethis letter I've got'll keep her tamed down a little. Hey, youBear-in-the-Cloud and Red Star and Crane--you educated sons o' gunssettin' around here as if you didn't know a word of English--there ain'tany spirits fermentin' on tap to-day, not a drop. It's gettin' scarceand the price is goin' higher. Clear out and wait till Jim McFann comesin to-morrow. He may be able to find somethin' that'll cheer you up!"
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